


It’s A Symbol of Hope

by CelestialVoid



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Superman, Captivity, Derek Hale as Superman, Journalist Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Panic Attacks, Reporter Stiles, Stiles Has Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 08:51:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11963967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: Stiles was a young reporter who was captured by Deucalion's rebel army and held captive. Six months later, he's brought in to interview his saviour: Superman.





	It’s A Symbol of Hope

The air around him was dense and hot, the thin wisps of stale oxygen suffocating him as the darkness began to close around him. His hands and feet were bound by heavy shackles, the metal cuffs chaffing his wrists and ankles and tearing at his sweat-soaked flesh. Clusters of blisters and welts had begun to irritate his skin, smears of blood and mud coating his frail limbs.

How long had he been there? Days? Weeks? Months?

His mouth was as dry as a desert and his chapped lips were cracked and bleeding, caked in clumps of dried blood.

He was trapped in a container or crate of sorts—that much he knew. The walls around him were made of metal grates that held back the thick clay and the only glimpse of the outside world was through a small piece of PVC piping through which water had trickled on the days it had rained and air had flowed freely, at least until it was blocked by the thick clay that surrounded him, leaving him to slowly suffocate.

HIs body was on the verge of collapsing when a wave of blazing heat washed over him. The confined space lit up with a molten red glow; the roof of the cage gave way, the blinding light of day breaking through the darkness.

Stiles winced, squinting against the glaring light as he looked up at the figure who hovered high above him in the air. The haze of light obscured his vision, but he could distinguish the shape of a man dressed in a skin-tight suit, the billowing fabric of his cape drifting about his body.

Stiles tried to fight it, but the darkness was seeping in around his eyes. The cool air made him shiver as it washed over his sweat-soaked body. He felt his body tremble and weaken before he hit the bottom of the crate.

He remembered the sound of shattering metal as his limbs were freed from the shackles and the sensation of weightlessness as he was hoisted off the ground. Through squinted eyes he could make out the shape of an S sitting inside a shield upon the man’s chest. The last thing he remembered was the drifting sound of the deep voice that reached his ears, a soft whisper of a husky voice strained by fear, “Hold on, Stiles… Hold on.”

 

 

Six months later, Stiles stood in the foyer of the Daily Planet, dressed in his usual white dress shirt; his thin black tie fastened around his neck and his favourite satchel thrown over his shoulder.

He looked down at the logo that was painted over the marble tiles, tugging at his tie slightly as he smiled to himself and stepped into the building. He hurried up the stairs and into the large open office where large pine desks sat in a semi-circle, backed up against the walls and facing one another: his, Derek’s and Scott’s. As per usual, Scott’s desk was semi-clean, Derek’s was pristine and Stiles’ was heaped with scattered papers, Post-it notes and photographs.

“I’m glad to see some things never change,” Stiles muttered to himself as he made his way around his desk and sat down, picking up the copy of today’s _Daily Planet_ that had been left on his desk. He felt his hear skip a beat as he looked at the article on the front page. There was a photo of him on the front: he was frail and bloodied, covered in bandages and laying against the bleached white sheets of a hospital bed with an oxygen mask over his face. Above it was the title, ‘SUPERMAN SAVES MISSING REPORTER’, and a subheading that explained how the superhero had single-handedly taken down Deucalion and his insurgent militia who had kidnapped Stiles and kept him hostage for two months.

The sound of rushing footsteps drew him back to reality as someone burst into the office.

Stiles looked up to see Scott, his shoulders heaving as he looked at Stiles with dark eyes full of apology and sorrow and panted, “I was hoping to get here before you saw it.”

Stiles held his arm out to the side and dropped the newspaper into the trashcan beside his desk.

After a moment, he said, “So, they took my story away from me?”

“The higher ups made the decision,” Scott explained. “They thought you wouldn’t want to write on the people who…”

“Who kidnapped and tortured me for two months before burying me alive and leaving me to die?” Stiles finished. “They have a point. But still, it was _my_ story."

“I’m sorry, man,” Scott said softly.

“It’s fine,” Stiles replied, sifting through all the papers on his desk and collecting all the information he had collected on Deucalion and his insurgency. He stacked it into one large pile and put it inside a manila folder before dropping it in the waste bin with the newspaper.

He straightened his back and sat back in his chair, a tight smile stretched across his face.

“I do have some good news,” Scott offered, slightly scared of Stiles’ impending burst of rage. “If you’re up for it, they want you to do a special.”

"Where's Derek?" Stiles asked, interrupting Scott and eyeing the desk that sat across the office from his.

"He said he had an early interview with some guy," Scott explained. 

"Uh-huh." 

Stiles nodded and turned his attention to other things, reaching into the top drawer of his desk and pulling out a handful of lollies. He tossed a few in his mouth and began to shuffle through the piles of paperwork, notes and lost pens, only disturbed when a deep voice said, "I'm looking for Stiles Stilinski."

"Then it's your lucky day," Stiles replied, tossing another lolly in his mouth and looking up at the three men in the doorway.

They wore formal military dress, neat pressed suits decorated with medals and their caps tucked under their arms. Judging by the badges and stripes that covered their shoulders, Stiles guessed that the youngest was a lieutenant, the man in front a general and the third man was a captain.

The general addressed him. "We need you to come with us."

"Okay," Stiles said nonchalantly. "Might I ask why?"

“We have someone in our custody and they will only speak to you,” the general answered. “That’s all we are allowed to disclose at this point in time.”

Stiles nodded, grabbing another handful of lollies before standing up and his satchel. He stepped around his desk and followed the three men out of the building.

 

 

Stiles was escorted through the dull grey halls of the military base. The captain and the lieutenant stood either side of him, marching him into the small room that opened up to a large window that looked into a bleak interview room. There was a table in the centre of the interview room, on one side was an empty chair and on the other was a large man dressed in a skin-tight suit, unmistakable.

“Superman?” Stiles muttered. “You want me to talk to Superman?”

“He refuses to talk to anyone else,” the captain explained. “We need you to find out whether or not he is a threat to our country.”

Stiles felt a ball rise in his throat. He remembered the tender touch of his strong hands that lifted him out of the crate. He remembered the drifting sound of the deep voice that reached his ears, a soft whisper of a husky voice strained by fear, “Hold on, Stiles… Hold on.”

Stiles nodded.

“Okay,” he rasped. “I’ll do it.”

The captain walked him to the door, pausing for a moment with his hand on the doorknob. He turned to look at Stiles. “We’ll have men outside the door and I’ll be right behind that glass.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said softly.

The captain opened the door and Stiles stepped in.

The latch clicked into place, making Stiles’ heart skip a beat. He took a second to compose himself, staring at the man who sat on the table, his sparkling aventurine eyes watching Stiles.

Stiles stayed on his feet, moving slowly towards the centre of the room. Stiles nodded towards the thin metal cuffs around Superman’s wrists. “Cute.”

The man smiled slightly.

“But you and I both know that you can break those like paper, so why do you bother pretending?” Stiles asked.

“To make you feel safe,” Superman replied. “If I’m cuffed then you won’t feel threatened.”

“I’m not scared of you,” Stiles replied. “And those handcuffs aren’t fooling anyone.” Stiles paused for a moment and drew in a deep breath. “What does the S stand for?”

“It’s not an S,” he replied. “On my planet, it stands for hope.”

Stiles smirked. “Yeah, well, here it’s an S.”

Superman chuckled.

“Why did you ask to talk to me?” Stiles asked.

“Because you’re a lot nicer than the other behind that window,” he answered.

“Okay, let’s get the big question out of the way: are you a threat to national security and/or our nation’s people?”

“I was raised here, this is my home,” Superman said softly. “I am only a threat to those who are a threat to others.”

 “Okay, then who are you?” Stiles asked, taking a step towards the cold metal chair that sat across from the man. “Where did you come from?”

“My name is Der-El,” the man answered. “I come from a planet called Krypton.”

“Never heard of it,” Stiles muttered.

“And you never will,” Superman replied. “It was destroyed. My mother and my father sent me away before Krypton’s destruction. I am the last survivor.”

“And you came to Earth?” Stiles prompted.

“Crashed, rather. I was raised here as a human, hiding my abilities.”

“You don’t seem to be hiding them anymore?” Stiles pointed out.

“Why hide something I can use to help people, to save them?”

Stiles felt his arms tremble. The air around him felt hot and heavy; stale against his dry tongue. He swallowed hard, feeling his chest ache and tighten. From somewhere beyond the deafening pounding of his pulse in his ears he heard someone call his name, but it was like a distant dream. His shoulders shook with broken gasps. The world around him darkened as his legs fell from beneath himself. He hit the ground, feeling nothing but damp clay and sharp metal bars.

There was a calamity in his ears, his vision darkening as his eyes fell shut and he collapsed, hitting the ground with a heavy thud.

 

 

He bolted upright with a gasp, looking at the captain’s worried face as his thin lips moved around words that struggled to reach Stiles’ ears.

“Stiles?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles whispered. He swallowed hard and pushed himself upright, gently brushing off the captain’s hands as he repeated, “I’m fine.”

He glanced across the room to where Superman stood, pinned back against the wall by men with guns; his handcuffs shattered and his eyes full of worry as he stared at Stiles.

“I need air,” Stiles rasped.

He felt the captain hoist him to his feet and guide him out of the military base. His body was trembling, his frail limbs stumbling over themselves as he burst into the open air.

The cool breeze stung at his sweat-soaked skin, but the sweet scent carried on the breeze made it all better; clearing the foggy mist that clouded his brain and calming his nerves.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, dialling the phone number he had learnt off by heart years ago. The phone rang and rang and rang, until a familiar voice answered, “Hi, you’ve reached Derek Hale. I’m unable to take your call at the moment, but if you leave your name and number I will call you back.”

There was a small beep and Stiles started talking, “Hi babe, it’s me… It happened again: panic attack and then I passed out… I don’t know what to do… I was really hoping you’d pick up; I really wanted to hear your voice. Oh, and when you’re done pretending you’re at an interview over breakfast, you and I need to have a talk… I love you, Derek.”

He hung up, taking a moment to stare down at his phone before shoving it back in his pocket.

**Author's Note:**

> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


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